


divide and conquer is what it's called

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [17]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Dom Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Emotional Manipulation, Heist, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, One Crew over the Crewcoo's Morty, Sad Ending, Unfortunate Implications, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23680084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: Rick didn't care if Morty stole, even encouraged it in most cases.The only mistake Morty made was writing it down, weaving his story into complicated plans and a make-shift family, and trying to be more than a parasite that fed on what Rick did, trying to be someone that existed beyond Rick. He wanted to make something with his own hands, not nearly as complicated as Rick's inventions but still special.He should have known that it didn't matter in the end because Rick was the one that had a story worth sharing.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Series: just a little bit broken [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1189990
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	divide and conquer is what it's called

**Author's Note:**

> all credit to Crem who left this forever ago, and since i'm trying to do all my requests during quarantine... sorry it took so long babe!
> 
> "Season 4 episode 3 is practically fucking begging you to write a fic about it. It showcases how insanely possessive and controlling rick is over morty. Incase you havnt seen it all yet, Rick conducted this batshit crazy elaborate heist, wich destroyed dozens of planets, just to make morty think heists are stupid so he'd give up on his heist movie script and his netflix deal opportunity. Alll because he was afraid that if morty actually got a goal in life that didnt revolve around him, he would go and leave him :•]"
> 
> thank you dearie!! i hope you love it <33

Morty liked to think that he had a purpose.

Beyond Rick, beyond all the bullshit that came with him, beyond his shitty family; he wanted to think that he would be able to cope without them. Realistically, he knew he couldn't: he'd already tried before when he was too healthy to bother entertaining something as toxic as his family, and he hadn't been able to make it alone. That was the sad truth.

The sadder truth was that he didn't want to be alone. 

Rick didn't act like he was getting older, but it was only a matter of time before something happened and Morty--Morty really wanted to leave his mark before he died. He was bound to slip up sooner or later, and there wouldn't be time for Rick to fix him up or save him like he had before. And, if anything, the only thing Morty would be remembered for was all the pain and suffering he inflicted on everyone in the universe as a fucking _terrorist._ He would die, and people would rejoice in it because ding-dong the witch was dead even though Morty was just a boy with glass bones and a paper heart.

He had a fucking _story._ He had something to say and he was too quiet, so unassuming that people didn't care. They didn't want to know, just like how everyone knew--he knew they did now, everyone did, he could see it in the way they ducked their heads and turned away from him like he was the disgusting one, like it was his fault that he didn't know how to stop it--and did nothing.

He wasn't good at English: he got addled, confused by his own ideas, and struggled not to weave the pain of bones shredding paper heart into the characters and everything they did, thought, said.

The thing about heists that Morty loved was that it was all about finding _value_ in people. A small, make-shift family that cared and learned to love through complicated tricks and trials, double-crosses and betrayal. And, at the centre of it all: a robbery. Stealing. Taking something that they had no business taking, and even though Morty was writing about something imaginary, he wondered how it would feel.

He took stuff all the time. Rick had him help out every so often in his schemes that always ended up with him bent over the dashboard, crying and saying _"Please, c'mon, Rick--not here, please,"_ because something about stealing made Rick disgustingly _nostalgic._

He even stole from a convenience store once, angry and festering like he had a disease rooted in his lungs, and he wanted to get caught and punished for something that was actually his fault, something that no-one made him do for once. He wanted to be as fucking disgusting as he felt, wanted to hurt someone somehow even though he didn't want them to know, or to lay his hands on anyone. He didn't get caught.

He cried.

And when he wrote about it, it was _good._

He wasn't guilty about it, his character was; he wasn't afraid of having his things, his autonomy, his life stolen from him; it was his character. And when it started making sense, and he got Summer to read through what he had (he was sure he would chew through his bottom lip when she rolled her eyes but acquiesced), he started to wonder--maybe foolishly--if his story, and by extension his _life,_ was something that mattered.

Rick didn't like it, and Morty just knew that he had done something--like hacked into his laptop, or just guessed his password ( _snuffles1234:_ it wasn't exactly hard to guess)--but it was obvious he had read at least some of it.

And maybe it was pettiness, or rudeness, or the memory of too many dark nights spent in the company of someone that Morty wished he had never known that made him write Rick as the villain, cold and suave until his eyes turned molten and he made the main character feel weak and desperate, made him feel like he was worth nothing and everything at the same time. Rick probably hated the way the main character found friendship and family, and other weak _bullshit_ that he warned Morty about.

He hated Rick. 

(He was lying: sometimes he looked at Rick with love and hate and every time they blurred together because he didn't know what it was like to feel anything but conflict raging in his war-torn brain, and Rick was the only person who looked at him like he could possibly, maybe understand even if it was just a cheap trick to make Morty heel, sit, stay.)

But... he was wrong.

He asked Rick, very nicely, head down and subservient (just the way Rick liked him), if he could please go on a heist adventure. Pretty please, just so he could add some realism, add some highs to the lows and understand what it was like to just take charge.

Normally, Rick would ask him what he would do for it.

And Morty wasn't as dumb as everyone though, or as stupid as he sounded when Rick eased his way inside him, his voice high-pitched and threatening to snap. He knew it was a trap and a trick, and he still let himself get caught in it by daring to ask for favours, or treats: he would guilt Rick, say low and wobbly, _"Please, Rick, af-after everything I do for you, can I please just do this?"_ if he didn't know that Rick would say yes. He would say yes, his eyes would get dark and his fingers would wrap loosely around Morty's throat, and he would _kiss the tears away._

Morty knew with absolute certainty that Rick loved watching him cry.

This time, his mouth turned up with genuine fondness, a glint in his eyes that had Morty wanting to shy away until he saw how excited Rick was--not like he was about to hurt Morty per se, but like he knew a secret. Rick liked knowing secrets and Morty unwittingly relaxed, secure that Rick would be happy for a few hours at least.

_All good things come to an end._

* * *

Rick hated losing. Morty hated facing the consequences.

* * *

Rick slammed him into the garage wall, their family not home but the garage door wide open. They weren't in plain view, hidden instead by the tall cabinet in front of them, but Morty heaved anyway, head reeling and stomach churning as Rick bit at his neck. "Rick," Morty gasped, arching up and away like that would make it any better. "No, Rick--stop!"

He didn't, laying a savage kiss on Morty's lips instead.

Morty burst into loud, hysterical sobs, pressing his forehead into Rick's chest, trying his best to stifle the sniffling even as he hyperventilated. What if mom came home? Dad? What if one of the neighbours saw, and everyone found out what secrets Morty had been keeping for Rick, knew that he'd been lying this whole time to everyone. He thought it might be different if he were a girl-Morty, but he's not and this shit didn't _fucking happen to boys_.

No-one would care and he knew that deep down, but he was ashamed and afraid because it was one thing to be weak with only Rick watching, but if anyone else knew...

He didn't know what he'd do.

"Calm down," Rick's voice was rough with lust and anger but his face lost some edge when Morty looked up, afraid. "'S okay. Grandpa's not mad at you, sweetie, I'm not." He smiled like he was trying to convince himself as well, and Morty nearly let himself believe that he was telling the truth. 

"Rick, I don't--" he regretted everything, regretted wanting to go on this stupid adventure even though he knew Rick didn't like heists--had heard him complain every time Morty tried to put one on.

"Go wait for me upstairs," Rick cut in. A bit nicer, he continued with a soft smile that made Morty tear up even more. "Please."

As if Morty even had a choice. 

* * *

It didn't hurt. Not a lot. Morty's heart hurt worse, Rick grunting and groaning in a way that seemed too loud to suit the quietness of his room, Morty gasping whenever he thrust too deep. He breathed in as deep as he could, whining whenever words failed him, and he hid his face for two reasons: so he couldn't see the way Rick looked, needy and desperate, and so Rick couldn't see him.

_Pathetic._

Especially when Rick decided that, fuck it, he was still angry and he spoke while he did _it_ until Morty couldn't separate Rick his grandpa from the person inside him. 

"Who the _fuck_ does that dipshit think he is?" a harsh thrust, Rick's hands pulling Morty down by his hips, forcing a startled groan out of him. "Thinks he can beat me? I'll fucking show him, I'll fucking show every last one of them-- _god, Morty, fuck, you're perfect_ \--I'll kill the bastard and his untalented little groupies, prove them wrong once and for all-- _shit..."_

If Morty pressed a chaste kiss, entirely of his own volition, against Rick's neck to calm him down, a scorned king: well, there was no-one around to witness it anyway.

* * *

At the end of the day it was just another Rick and Morty adventure, and Rick came out on top (Morty tried not to flush at the unintentionally poor phrasing, his cock wrung raw and his ass still sore enough that he walked just a little bit funny--he'd had practice enough in hiding it that it wasn't too difficult) like he always did. The whole thing had been dumb and Morty didn't dare consider the small sting of satisfaction when he thought that Rick had been bested by his own invention, his own creation.

The spark had been crushed quickly enough, but the fact that it had sprouted to life at all, wrapping dark and thorny around his heart...

He hated it.

And he hated that he still really, truly wanted to go to his meeting, the one that he hadn't told Rick about-- _and he would be so, so mad if Morty told him now, knowing he had opportunity before and chose not to_ \--even though he knew he would get in trouble, knew Rick would make fun of him. Morty was dumb and had dumb goals and dumb dreams, and...

He asked Rick. It was a rushed, hasty explanation like he thought that, if he spoke fast enough, Rick wouldn't be able to keep up and would let him stay together instead of pulling him apart. He knew Rick wouldn't care, would be more likely to dig his thumb into the bite marks on Morty's collarbone, and he still told him, barely able to maintain his composure as Rick waited patiently. Too patiently, for him to finish.

He waited for the other shoe to drop... but it didn't.

Instead Rick smiled that secret smile, that one that made Morty think, _wow, he really does care,_ and he said he was proud. And he cared. And if he was proud and caring and let them leave mid-adventure just so Morty could attend a _meeting_ , how the fuck could he be as bad as the villain he painted him out to be in his script? The contrast made Morty's toes curl uncomfortably even as they stepped through the portal, Rick's soft grin never wavering for a second.

"Go gettem, Morty," Rick said, and Morty could have cried. He hadn't heard much about his story from anyone except Summer who had shut him down the third time he bugged her about it. If they said anything at all, good or bad, it wasn't when he was around to hear it, but this? This was now. This was real, Rick was _supporting_ him _._

He gave Rick the biggest grin he could muster, all thoughts of good and evil and hate and love fleeing from mind because they didn't matter. Not when Rick was like this.

It felt good.

...Until it didn't. Because the more he thought about the script on the spot, the more he realised how plain the characters were, how incessant and unnecessary the copious amount of betrayals were, how the main character wasn't worthy of taking the treasure at the end, not cutthroat enough to be anything more than a side-character at best. He had based so much of the story on him and Rick-- _"We're the only people that matter, Morty, in the whole universe, Morty,"_ \--and it had come up flat. Boring. Predictable.

Like heists.

Because it was in the bad guy's nature to betray, everyone would be able to see that--everyone, except Morty apparently. And what the _fuck_ did that say about his life if even he couldn't see the point in it even existing at all?

Rick had been right all along in not liking heists and Morty... had been acting like a little kid who thought he knew better.

"Hey, buddy," Rick said nicely, leaning against the ship like he had never been more at ease. He was wearing sunglasses, ones that hid his eyes and their burning intensity that usually made Morty want to go up in flames. He liked them. "How--how'd it go?"

Morty _hated_ him, he had to, he fucking had to--

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, sliding into the passenger seat. Maybe Morty didn't hate Rick, maybe he hated himself because he couldn't find it in himself to loathe his grandpa, deserving of it or not. He was being nice, even after how shitty and stressful the day had been, and all Morty could do was be mean. What would he give to be in Rick's shoes for once, he wondered absently.

"Morty, you know, pal, you, uh you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take," Rick said, and Morty tried so hard to stay in control of his cracking composure.

"Thanks for being--being positive about my prospects, Rick," Morty said dully, pressing his forehead against the cold window. What else could he say? He couldn't ignore Rick, that would make him mad. And there was just a small part of him that maybe meant it too, that wanted to encourage Rick to always be this caring when they were together. Even if his prospects didn't and never would extend beyond Rick.

"Of course! You know, you I got to help my grandson follow his dreams." Morty just wanted Rick to punch him. To gut him like a fish, string him up on a wall and cash in a new Morty who could cope with the hot and cold.

"Who needs dreams?" Morty wished that Rick wouldn't bring up that they were related. God knew he did it enough on his own. "I'll just hang out with you and go on adventures and do whatever you want to do, you know, forever."

Forever was a long time.

"Oh, well, uh, okay," Rick said, sounding... genuinely surprised. "I mean, if that's what you want."

Morty would learn to deal with it, though. He'd get better.

* * *

Later, Rick was in Morty's room again, touching and kissing and saying the best, most horrible words that Morty had ever heard from him.

"How can you do this to me?" Morty cried, his hands clutching at Rick's sweater, pressing his face into his shoulder. Rick shushed him, pet his hair, and Morty felt so _guilty_ that he'd even tried to go through with this at all. "How can you--why are you so nice? When you're s-s-so _me-ean_ \--"

"Of course I'm nice, baby," Rick soothed, pushing Morty back by the shoulders and thumbing at his tears. "You wanted to do something and I helped you, yeah? Yeah, baby, of course I did, my smart boy... wrote that little thing all by yourself, re-really worked for it, Morty, and I let you. I could--some other people would've held you back, but not me, right?"

Rick was right.

Sometimes Rick was mean, palming bruises onto his hips, his thighs, his throat, and Morty didn't know how he could ever think he was nice, but this? This was worse than that. Because Morty could see into Rick's eyes, the fire that was there for him and him _only._ When Rick's gaze was liquid heat and his touches were there to brush the tears and pain away--because Rick liked to see him cry, but he knew Morty couldn't stand it.

But Morty couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't bring himself to do what Rick wanted, what he always wanted, what would keep him in this nice, sweet mood. It sickened Morty just how important he felt, sitting on Rick's lap like he had any power at all. 

So, when Rick kissed him, it felt a little bit like relief.

**Author's Note:**

> ok so something that really interested me about this episode is that morty is shown to have an inclination to write a story. all my writers on here would probably agree with me that our stories are extensions of ourselves: no matter how far fetched they are, they are still connected to us and our lives and how we see things. rick didn't just suck the joy out of morty's idea: he made sure that morty didn't feel like he had a story worth telling.
> 
> soooo super duper short but it was a fun way to spend my afternoon.
> 
> find me on twitter @xbloodrunsredx and on tumblr under the same name!!


End file.
